When You Finally Break
by EmHarper
Summary: -Short One Shot- What happens when you get on the bad side of a man who's close to the breaking point. (Just a story I wrote while I was bored on the bus)


From the moment he woke up, he could tell that it was going a be a different kind of day. The sky was swallowed by grey, spluttering water as the previously blue colour drowned in the dullness of the day.

The man sighed; he was different on rainy days. In recognition to the day's weather, his morbid depression gleefully kicked in, almost instantaneously after he opened his eyes to the sound of drizzle pelting against his windows. His work colleagues told him that he was suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder, that it was normal in their line of work and that he shouldn't worry. Upon finding out, the man almost laughed at the correlation of the acronym for his depressive disorder and how he felt upon enduring it. He laughed even more at the fact that his friends thought that depression was actually acceptable, especially for someone like him.

He sulkily forced himself out of the comfort of his bed, catching one of his pyjama buttons on the top sheet in the process and tripping over his own feet, landing headfirst on the hard, wooden floor with a _thud._ He groaned, the side of his forehead throbbing with each beat of his pulse. He pushed himself up, instinctively reaching a hand up to his wound to access the injury. No blood, luckily, but a nasty bruise would probably form throughout the course of his day, along with a maddening headache.

 _Great_ , he thought. _Now I'll look even more like a freak._

He ignored the scream of hunger erupting from his stomach, making his way past the empty fridge and into the bathroom, grabbing his toothbrush in rebellion to his apparent ravenousness. He paused for a moment, scanning the bench, biting his lip as his search became more of a scramble. _Where the hell was his toothpaste?_ The man cursed as he spun around to the medical cabinet, whacking his head against the edge of it in the process. He swore, rubbing the side of his face in pain. He looked back over at the mirror, careful to stay a clear distance from any sharp corners, and swore at the sight of his reflection. He watched the red liquid snake down the side of his cheek, slowly directing its way to the corner of his mouth where he was overwhelmed by the taste of copper. His first thought was to spit it out, but he was too intrigued by the way the warm blood oozed from the small cut under his eye. He stood there for a moment, simply watching the liquid trail effectively, admiring how it refused to flow in a straight line.

Suddenly, an object hidden under the counter caught his eye. He sighed as his attention was diverted from the sickly liquid and cautiously bent down to pick up his missing toothpaste. He desperately tried scrubbing away the foul flavour of the blood, no longer entranced by it, and covering up the revealing cut, yet failing miserably. Even strands of his messy hair had been glued together, the tips gaining a reddish tint. He let out a harsh exhale, ramming a comb through his un co-operative brown locks, eventually giving up and sticking with the default bed-hair look he'd recently acquired.

To his astonishment, he'd managed to get through dressing without a hassle.

He quickly glanced down at his watch. _5:25_. He smiled, he still had time to get to work via bus on time and make himself a cup of coffee, a necessity for mornings like this. Groggily, the man set to work starting up his coffee maker, grabbing his favourite mug out of the cupboard as he watched the brown liquid pour into the mug, satisfied.

"Maybe today won't be so bad," he said to himself as he placed his cup onto the counter, preparing to pour his favourite beverage. "Coffee always make things better. At least, in my book it does."

Perhaps he spoke to soon. As soon as he snaked his hand around the handle of the jug, a _screech_ of a veering vehicle from outside his building caused him to jerk back, slightly yet violently, causing the once gratifying liquid to spill onto his hands, scorching his skin. He screamed, dropping the jug onto the ground, shattering the glass. Shards spread across the kitchen floor, some leaping into his leg like a magnet.

"Fuck!" He cried, running to the tap to let the cool water aid his burning hands. Biting his bottom lip, the man looked down at his now tattered pants, noticing several cuts scattered across his skin. He glanced down at his watch again. _5:29_. His bus would arrive in seven minutes. He'd no time to dress his wounds, only his hands, if we wanted to catch it.

He sighed, grabbing a towel and patting his hands dry, as he made his way over to the medical cabinet, grabbing burn cream and a gauze. He bit back the urge to cry out in agony as he applied the cream, expertly wrapping his throbbing hand in the bandage. He didn't have time to clean up the mess or change his trousers; he had a spare pair at work anyway. He quickly grabbed his satchel and keys off the hallway counter and hurriedly left his apartment, shoving his keys into his pocket after quickly locking his front door.

He already knew that the building's elevator was out of order, instantly heading towards the stairs, resisting the urge to, once again, check his watch as he flew down the flights of stairs.

He stepped out of the apartment block, slightly out of breath, the chilled wind and pelting rain causing him to mentally slap himself as he realised he forgot a jacket and an umbrella. He sighed, knowing that he didn't have time to run back to his flat, and made his way out of the shelter and into the wet world, regretting everything as he ran to the bus stop, skidding a couple of times on rouge slippery tiles.

He grinned as he finally approached his destination, thanking the Lord that he'd made it to his stop on time and that his bus had been there waiting for him. He gleefully stepped on, embracing the heated shelter, and quickly paid the driver, making his way over to an empty seat in the isolated area of the vehicle. He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning against the edge of his seat, grateful that he didn't have to run the rest of the way to work. Now he could just rest, get himself under control, let the quiet nurse his throbbing headache and the warmth his injuries.

His eyes snapped open as a collective sound of high-pitched squeals erupted in his ears. He glared towards the front of the bus, noticing a group of girls hop on for a ride to school. There was five of them, all of them complaining about how the weather had caused their hair to tarnish and their makeup to run. The man sighed, praying under his breath that they'd sit on the opposite end of the bus to him and not make much noise.

Of course, his prayers were answered by a curse.

The group of girls attempted to casually walk down the isle towards him, stumbling as the bus swerved into drive, choosing the seats directly next to him.

"Wait, where do I sit?" One girl asked as she watched her group of friends sit down.

"I dunno, next to that guy?"

The girl glanced behind her, glancing down at the man. She rolled her eyes and sighed, sitting as far away as possible from him, which he was honestly grateful for.

The bus lurched to a sudden halt, horn blaring at some idiot driver, the girl crashing backwards and shoving the man into the wall.

"Crap," she spat, digging her elbows into his ribs as she attempted to sit up again.

He fought back the impulse to cry out in pain, her abnormally large ass already squishing his injured hand.

"God, is the driver blind or something? I'm pretty sure we don't pay him to fucking kill us."

Her posse of followers laughed, more accurately shrieked, at their leader's attempt of a joke.

The man rolled his eyes, desperately wanting to change seats, and attempted to push himself back up to a comfortable sitting position, accidentally nudging the girl in the process.

She spun around, long hair whipping his face, a look of horror plastered on her plastic face.

"What the fuck?!"

"I'm sorry," the man mumbled, not really in the mood for conversation.

"Where you trying to _touch_ me or something?!"

His eyes widened. "No!" He tried to protest, his voice shaky. "I was just sitting up. I didn't mean to…"

"God, you sicko," one girl said.

"Perv," another coughed.

"Guys, it was an accident, just drop it," an additional girl, one that hadn't spoken yet, said quietly.

The other four glared at her.

"Jas, shut the hell up, okay?" The leader spat.

The girl, Jas, nodded shyly. "Sorry, Lola."

Lola rolled her eyes, glaring behind her at the man once more, before delving into a deep conversation about 'the importance of having Kylie Jenner in your life.'

The man sighed, glancing out the window to focus on anything but the conversation that was going on next to him. He concentrated on watching the rain slide down the side of the window, attentively following the intricate patters made by the droplets as they wound down the side of the glass pane. His mind wandered back to his accident this morning, how the blood felt against his skin and tasted in his mouth. He wondered why he was suddenly so fascinated by the substance; he'd worked with it for most of his life with no sense of captivation… until now. He thought of it as only a side-effect of his morbid SAD, but it felt more than that. He had questions regarding the liquid, answers he needed to know before continuing with life.

He paused. _Life._ What would it be like to hold another person's life in your hands, be the only thing between their life and death. He worked with people who thought like this everyday, never actually understanding their reasoning behind this fascination. Could he finally know why they do those horrid things to people?

His mind instantly recalled a song he'd been listening to the previous day, one he hadn't considered the meaning of the lyrics until now. He didn't need to strain to remember the lyrics, they sat there at the front of his mind.  
 _Mama, help me, I've been cursed  
Death is rolling in every verse  
_Linkin Park. People who knew him would never consider seeing this artist on his music collection; they probably wouldn't consider half the things he likes. He'd been living a lie, a double life. His geeky exterior fooled them all, diverting their attention from the monster lying within. Beethoven? Sure, the composer used to be his everything, all his listened to for most of his life. Then he turned on the radio, opened his eyes to the real world and not the dreamland he'd been living in. Dark, alternative music expressed who he was inside, let him drown his fears and loneliness into the strong and meaningful words of the screaming vocals. They understood how he felt, how he'd somehow changed from the nerdy boy into the man he was now. He refused to let other people know about his transition. They'd judge him, not take him seriously, refuse to work with him knowing who he'd become. It scared him.  
 _Candy paint on his brand new hearse  
_ Except, music wasn't the only thing that was different about him.

He snapped out of his thoughts, taking in his surroundings. The one of the girls, presumably Lola, was hailing for the bus to pull over, her friends questioning her actions.

"I just need to check in with Tyler," she shurgged.

The group giggled.

"Your parents still don't know about him?" One of her disciples asked.

"Please, my dad won't even let me go within a ten mile radius of a boy my age," Lola scoffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

The man checked his watch curiously. _5:48._ He still had over half an hour until he had to be at work. He glanced around at the surrounding buildings, searching for some clue as to where he was. A street sign suddenly caught his eye. _Lochlin Street._ He was only a couple of blocks away from his destination. He watched as Lola confidently stood up, waving goodbye to her friends, and make her way to the exit of the bus. He needed to decide quickly. If he got off now he could have his questions answered, a savouring finally quenched. Stay or leave? Leave or stay? His final decision would change his life. He had only seconds left before the bus doors closed and his only chance of receiving answers would be left in the dust.

With a moments hesitation, he quickly stood up, grabbing his satchel, and excited the bus, making sure to seem casual and not overly excited.

The man made sure to stay a sure distance away from his target as he slyly followed her to an isolated alley. He hid at the entrance, taking in his surroundings. The way she was heading seemed to be behind a dumpster, which just so happened to be in a secluded area that couldn't be seen from the neighbouring streets. She must've been meeting someone, but, from what the man could tell, she was currently alone.

He inhaled deeply. This was his chance. His hand dived into his satchel, rummaging around the rubbish until he wrapped his hand around the item he'd been looking for. Shaking, he bought out a pointed knife. He didn't realise until that moment that he'd been carrying the weapon around with him. He must've grabbed it sub-consciously in frustration during his apartment fiasco. He rubbed his thumb along the sharp edge of the knife, enjoying the prick of the tip against his skin. His lips curled into a malicious grin; he could tell that he was going to enjoy this new experience.

He stepped into the alley, his footsteps softly echoing as he made his way towards his unsuspecting victim.

"Tyler?" She called flirtatiously from behind her hiding spot. "Is that you?"

The man refused to answer, continuing his easy stride towards her.

"Babe? Are you tryna scare me?"

He twiddled the blade between his fingers, anticipating the excitement that was soon to follow.

"C'mon, babe. You know that shit doesn't work on me."

He was getting closer, only a few more steps and he'd be right next to her.

"Tyler? Seriously stop it."

The weight of the knife in his hand was perfectly balanced.

"Tyler, answer me you piece of shit."

He quietly picked up a brick from the ground, beginning to count down in his head, the excitement almost too much for him to bare.

 _3…_

"Okay, you're starting to scare me now."

 _2…_

"I admit it! I'm fucking terrified! You win!"

 _1…_

"Tyler!"

He stepped into her line of sight, shoving a loose brick into the side of her head to prevent her from screaming. The girl was knocked out instantly, a small stream of blood running down her cheek from the impact.

"That was almost too easy," the man scoffed.

He straddled her limp body, beginning to thrust the knife continuously into her perfect body. He grinned at the sight of the blood oozing from her wounds, his heart pounding in time with each plunge. Anger was pouring out of him, his hatred towards this girl and others like her was evident in his overkill. His arm began to grow tired, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his breathing became shallow pants.

He grinned as he licked his lips, pushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear as he admired his work.

He checked his watch. _6:14._ He was going to be late. Slowly, the man stood up from his crouched position, shoving his beloved weapon into his bag as he ran over to a previously spotted public bathroom where he could wash the drying blood off his quivering hands.

He ended the first stall, adrenaline rushing through him, and slammed it shut, turning to the sink where he let the water flow. He watched the red liquid run off his tender skin, swirling as it mixed with the clear water.

He had been right. The joyful sensation the thrust of the blade gave him, his new found thirst for spilt blood, his empathetic understanding of the criminals he'd previously worked against. He loved it; he _craved_ it. He _needed_ _more_ of it.

But work came first.

He switched off the tap, smoothed down his, somehow still pristine, shirt and restyled his hair, ruffling it slightly to regain his go-to bed-hair look. Then he smiled at his reflection, picking up his satchel and swinging it perfectly over his shoulder, and walked out of the bathroom and towards the FBI headquarters - _work_.

People didn't give a second glance at the smiling man as the walked past, no one giving a damn to think about what the small flecks of blood on his face were from.

Spencer Reid, a changed and broken man.


End file.
